Better Selves
by Soulless In Stereo
Summary: He knows what he is. A mad and broken wreck of humanity. What he doesn't know is how someone who's just as mad and broken could have possibly found him in these endless wastes - New summary.
1. Wasteland

I own nothing.

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Better Selves

Wasteland

The wastes are endless. He knows that. Has always known. When it comes to empty, survival-fueled existence, nothing is so endless as the dark depths of his mind. He wouldn't expect the barren desert around him to be any less.

 _Where are you?_

 _Where are you, Max?_

Even amidst nothing, he's never alone. Ghosts dwell in those dark depths and when they surface, his world goes red and fills with screams.

 _Where are you?_

Hells if he knows.

It's been months since he left the Citadel, disappearing in the crowd of creatures who held their eyes to the sky and screamed Furiosa name. Their faces float through his black matter even now. Their stifling need for something, someone to cling to they way babes cling to a mother. They need someone good, righteous and strong. Someone who will chase away the darkness and make their world real again. Someone like Furiosa. It's why he had to leave.

The real world is no place for a madman.

He shakes his head of the thought and calculates. Yes, it's been months. Even if time is thin with nothing but sand and miles behind, he knows he's gone farther than he has before, eating through his full tank of gas in a pattern of daylight and darkness. He's pleased with how long he can run with the dusty courser he took from the Citadel.

It's not so different from his V8, all smooth angles, sitting low to the ground. Simple, but efficient. It drives like an arrow through hot air, swift and comforting, though it lacks familiarity. He thought about going back, right after he left the towering home of the dead tyrant. To go back and search for the remains of his trusty vehicle. But even that attachment, long as it's existed, makes his skin itch.

Mostly, a part of him worries the Imperator or the wives, fragile but fearless, will come looking for him. It's a small part, a whisper in the back of his mind that tells him it's good to feel wanted, even if only for his ruthlessness. It's a whisper he hasn't heard in devil knows how long and it makes him devour the miles faster then he thought possible.

A pale girl, eyes like clear water, flashes before him in the flying desert. She screams. Blood pours from her mouth.

In a waterfall of red she disappears beneath his bumper.

He slams the car to a stop.

With his eyes closed the desert around him vanishes. If only the crumbled world in his brain would be so easily dismissed.

 _You didn't save us._

 _Why didn't you save us?_

The voices beg for answers he stopped trying to give long ago.

 _Why, Max?_

He opens his eyes and pounds a fist against the steering wheel. Revels in the pain that spreads through his hand. It's something solid he can grasp to. Real. More than nothingness and sand and horror filled voices.

Real, unlike the dark blob in the corner of his vision.

He turns, blinks. The spot sits in a haze of heat on the horizon beside him. It doesn't disappear. Not even while he waits, nothing but the scrape of scorching wind against his skin and the sizzle-pop of cooling metal in his ears. So he can only guess. Only hope.

The blob must be real, too.

* * *

Can't believe I'm posting this. I don't normally write narrative fiction and I've never written fanfiction (okay there was a Boondock Saints one-shot _years_ ago) but the movie has me on a furious chrome high. Since I can't get back to my own writing until I work it out of my system, I figured I might as well get some feedback while I'm at it. So feel free to let me know that the story sucks. Because it probably does. Again, narrative fiction. Not my thing.


	2. Not Alone

I own nothing but the insanity in my head.

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Not Alone

He shouldn't stop. There's no reason to.

Though he's gone through most of his water, the aquacola he took from the only supply within hundreds of miles, it doesn't worry him. And he isn't riding on fumes, not yet. But it's the first real thing he's seen in this wasteland and wonders if he'll even be able to find anything once he is out of water and out of gas. It's wise to take supplies if they're presented to him. And they are.

The dark blob is a car.

A buggy, really. Nothing more than a metal frame with glass and sheet plating. It's a tiny insect compared to the monstrosities made in the Citadel, but looks sturdy enough. Basic necessity. A way out of trouble.

From a shallow dune nearby he scans the camp, cheek rubbing against the rough stock of the rifle that sits heavy in his hands. There's a pack and blanket splayed over the ground, but no sign of the driver.

Warm metal presses against the base of his skull. A hammer snaps back with a CLACK.

No wonder.

He tightens his grip on the rough metal beneath his fingers.

"Move and lose your head."

The voice is deep. Wheezing and full of gravel.

The sound brings Immorten Joe's face in a flash before his eyes. The chelsea grin and ghostly skin a haunting image that batters at the dusty contents of his brain. It's the same noise. A harsh mechanical voice, hiding weakness through the guise of false power.

Endless desert returns to his vision as the gun nudges his head. It presses more insistently when he doesn't move, so he leaves the rifle on the ground and finds his feet. Another nudge has his arms aloft.

His anger begins a slow burn in the pit of his stomach.

A hand digs into his jacket, rummaging beneath the sand-buffed leather while the gun rests against his skull. One barrel. Feels like a rifle. He could take it, but it's just high enough he'll have to be quick to beat the bullet in its chamber. He's never been too quick, not outside his V8, and not when he's been running without end for so long.

So he stills as the hand emerges with his sawed off, tossing it into the sands at their feet. It continues to dig, working toward the set of guns on his back. He can't help but glance down and watch as it deprives him of his weapons.

Ragged wrappings leave only fingers exposed to his view. They're tanned, calloused and scarred. On it's third pass it goes for the gun in his holster and he glimpses rough letters etched onto each knuckle. They spell "SOUL," in faded ink. If he tried, cared, he'd ask what it's supposed to mean. All he does is simmer in his anger.

Something else about the hand rubs like harsh sand against his mind. It's small. Delicate. He hopes it doesn't belong to a woman.

He's had his fill with trouble-making women.

The hand ceases its search. A nudge of sun-warmed metal has him stumbling forward.

"Walk."

The command brings the Citadel to the center arena of his brain. Strung up like an animal, drained of his blood, _his_ because it's the only thing he could truly claim anymore. Forced to be an unwilling pawn in the endless chase over property that shouldn't be property. The nonsense of it all and the base instinct that got him through. Survive.

"Walk, monster."

Hot anger boils over.

He drops low and pitches back.

His arm catches the barrel of the rifle and sends its cargo of death into the air with a CRACK.

He and its owner are already halfway down the dune by the time the echo fades.

The world looses its sharpness as he descends into anger. It fills him like nothing's filled him in the months since Fury Road, finding every empty pocket inside his frayed mind and turning the world red and blurry.

Sand flies as they both struggle for the higher ground.

He wins it, fights hard to keep it.

He grabs a fistful of stiff, dusty fabric and pounds at a blurred face.

Over.

And over.

The skin of his knuckles split on metal and leather before they ever reach skin and bone.

He howls.

Arms wind around his neck.

Yank his head down.

His back hits sand and suddenly the blurriness goes sharp.

All he can see is the mask.

Dark, empty eyes - no, goggles - hover over a pair of deformed metallic lips. Lips that scream through silenced terror and crude stitching.

It's horrific.

Inhuman.

And then it's the blue-eyed girl who howls over him. Her face a flicker of skin and skull.

 _You promised to help us._

 _Why, Max?_

No

 _Why didn't you help us?_

Stop

 _Why didn't you fight for us?_

His head snaps to the side and the vision fades.

Pain replaces it.

There's a gun against his temple and he wraps his hand around the wrist wielding it, wrenches it away.

A bullet buries itself in the sand behind his head.

Something cracks under his palm.

The mask screams and synthesized gravel fills his ears. It gets louder when he tightens his grip.

The gun drops.

He rolls them away from the dangerous metal and has the urge to see. See beyond the monster of stitching and blackness. See beyond this thing that sounds like a false god. He claws at the leather straps on the side of the mask, wrenching and tearing.

It thrashes beneath him.

He pounds a fist into its side. The thrashing stops.

Finally, leather straps surrender and the mask goes flying.

Pain erupts in his shoulder.

His hand flies to find a knife embedded to its hilt.

He pulls it.

Something hard hits his stomach and the world goes wrong side up.

When the dust in the air and his brain settles, there's a heel grinding into his bloodied shoulder and a blade pressed against his throat.

And finally he sees.

* * *

I want to thank everyone who left a review on the piddly first chapter I posted for this story. You are all wonderful for seeing something in the nothing I gave as an introduction to the impending insanity! I'm glad you like it. Hopefully I can do my job and it will continue to not suck.

Anyway, another brief bit. Feel free to leave any feedback because my narcissism loves it. Don't worry it doesn't get fed very often.


	3. Lesser Devils

I own nothing.

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Lesser Devils

It is a woman. Her dark eyes bear down on him, hot as the sun that glares into his vision, and he wants to know what being, above or below, he's pissed off to deserve this.

Somewhere, Furiosa must be laughing.

The woman's young, a girl really, no more than twenty. Far too young to be alone in the unforgiving wastes. Her face speaks of its cruelty. A white, jagged scar wraps around her eye, from temple to tear duct. It stands out like a beacon against sun-beaten skin. Looks deliberate.

Cruelty for cruelty's sake.

She seems to have no disgust in her cruelty against him for invading her camp. But that's all this hell is anymore, isn't it? Punishment and pain for those who fight to survive. But surviving is all there is, so he splays his hands in surrender.

She shifts forward with a sneer and the blade pinches his neck.

It's a crafty weapon. Tiered metal with a thin, needle-like blade on one end. It must be able to retract else he's mad enough to have missed a weapon like that in their tussle. The staff allows her to tower over him, a vengeful harpy who has the power to kill him with a simple twitch of her wrist.

So why hasn't she?

Neither says anything as they both huff scalding air. He waits for her to speak. She hadn't hesitated when she wore the mask. He glances at its angry visage, abandoned in the sand an arms length away. Metal lips sewn forever shut.

He clears his throat.

"Okay, easy."

It accomplishes nothing, save more tightness on his throat as the blade threatens to mix blood and sand.

"Whatever you want. Take it."

"All I want," she says. "Is to be alone."

Her voice, her real voice, is rough. Melodic.

It makes his anger stops spilling over. Because he knows what that's like.

He knows what it's like to want nothing more then to drive into the emptiness of the wasteland and shout and howl until he can't scream anymore, if only so the voices in his head will stop screaming too. Because that's what it is to have ghosts. And for the first time he wonders what ghosts haunt the survivor in front of him.

Her eyes flicker to the horizon. A snarl crosses her lips.

He takes advantage, kicks the staff away and scrambles out of the sand.

A gun greets his face when he finds his feet. She doesn't break eye contact as she shifts the barrel to point over his shoulder.

He hesitates a moment, it's probably a trick, but the gun drops so he risks a look.

Visible in the shifting haze of the desert is a fleet of vehicles. They kick up a storm of dust that scatters over the horizon like the thunderous roar of their engines, heralding the impending arrival of something terrible.

He looks back to the girl -

\- and she's already halfway up the side of the dune.

He lunges after her, feet sinking deep and spraying sand with every step. When he makes it to the top his weapons are untouched and he can see her sprinting for the buggy. He grabs the first things his hands touch, a rifle, handgun, and ammo clip, and looks back in the direction he left his vehicle before sparing another glace at the encroaching fleet. It's an easy decision. He'll never make his car before they're on top of him. An engine roars to life behind him.

So he bolts for the buggy.

It gathers speed as his legs pound and protest. A deep, rattling percussion beats beneath the rumble of its engine.

He grabs for the metal frame. It slips past his fingers.

A tiny pale hand grabs his.

Yanks him forward.

His vision clears and he has rumbling metal beneath both palms. He clings to it and cranes back to look at the approaching maelstrom.

They're close enough now that he can see the angry, rusted monsters. There's at least a dozen of them, all jagged edged and spiked tires. Two of the largest trucks sport scaffolding and shifting creatures he can't quite make out in the fumes of heat.

He doesn't know what they are. He's gone farther into the wastes than he realized and everything is strange and unfamiliar. But they aren't friendly.

Nothing in this living hell is.

The fleet is at least five minutes behind them. It's not much, but enough he might be able to convince the girl not to shoot his head off. He slings the rifle over his shoulder and tucks the extra ammo into his jacket. Pistol in hand, he works his way up to the door of the buggy.

He goes in feet first. The moment he clears the window there's a gunshot rattling in his ears. But the shot goes wild.

He grabs for her wrist and she lets out a howl of pain. Guilt sparks in the back of his head when he realizes it's the same wrist he crushed during their fight.

But her elbow smashes his face. Snuffs out the flame.

He traps the arm under his own and puts his pistol to her head.

She jerks the steering wheel. Rubber sputters over sand beneath them.

His head hits metal and he feels her slip from his grasp as the car straightens out.

They pick up speed.

He kicks a foot up and catches the gun in her hand to send it scattering into the backseat.

The car races over sand and she must have locked the gas pedal down, because when he rights himself she traps his hand and pistol with a vicious slam against the dash.

She smashes it once.

Twice.

And his fingers let go.

He grabs her dark hair, twisted into a braid, and pulls her down to the seat.

She howls in pain, gropes from something in her coat.

His mind flashes back to the knife he pulled from his shoulder during their tussle and he traps the wild hand with one knee.

Lithe and little as she is, she's disadvantaged beneath his weight. He pins her against the seat and wonders how she bested him in the sand.

She bucks her hips, kicks, and his hand goes around her throat.

It's instinct. Pure and simple.

He squeezes.

Her eyes go wild as she's cut off from air. She meets his gaze with searing heat and struggles harder, free hand clawing for his face. But all he can see is the anger. It boils in those depths, swirls in time with the frenzied hammering of her pulse beneath his palm. A dark shadow. Tainted life fighting for existence behind the fragile safety of colorless eyes. It's mesmerizing.

Then fear seeps into shadow.

And he can't remember why he wants to kill her.

The delirium fades, a slow sap dripping from his mind, and he feels... frightened. He climbed in with decent intentions, but pull out a gun and punch him in the face and this is where it leads. This is all his brain and his body is hard wired to do.

The shadow-eyed girl bucks beneath him again, with more strength then he'd think her to have, and kicks the gear shift.

The buggy jerks as it downshifts.

It sends them both into the dashboard.

One of them must have grabbed the steering wheel, because suddenly the car is tipping and his back hits the driver's side door. The hinges don't hold and he latches one hand around the metal frame before it can spit him onto the desert floor. And then there's nothing but air and sand flying beneath his feet.

The girl coughs while she straightens the wheel.

She shifts gears and the buggy lurches forward.

It slams his door closed with a bang that has him flailing against the body of the car.

His boots sputter as they hit the back wheel. He scrambles to get leverage against buffed metal.

The girl leans back and kicks into the door. Sends it swinging back into torrential air.

His heart hammers as he hangs off the side of the speeding vehicle, a feral woman ready to send him tumbling until he's nothing but broken bones and empty flesh.

But the girl doesn't end it. Her attention catches on something in the desert beyond him.

And he remembers.

The giant, rusting monsters from the depths of the wastes.

His mind clears and he can hear the insane hollering that chases them across the sand.

He looks back to see the two large trucks already working to pin the buggy between them. They're bigger than he thought, massive pieces of rust-covered machinery that make him think of the war rig. Big. Intimidating.

The scaffolding on their backs rises high into the air. It reminds him of the jungle gyms children used to play on before the world died. The scaffolding sports cruel looking machinery and red-faced creatures clothed in roughshod pants and thick jackets. They jump across the metal like monkeys. He sees hooks and poles. Guns and ropes.

Before he can get the rifle from his back, a thick cord hooks around his neck, tightens, and yanks him off the swinging door.

The constriction has his hands at the noose and he pulls and tugs to return air to his lungs. He feels his feet kick against the top of the buggy as he's dragged into the air.

Fuck.

Was this how he was gonna die?

Dangling in the air like a hooked fish?

As they hoist him onto the truck, he has his answer. They want them alive.

As hands grab at his arms and legs it makes him think of blood bags and cruel masks and burning brands and never again. It sets the madman in him loose.

He swings furiously at the red creatures.

Most of them go down with the hit and it's enough time for him to pull the rifle into his hands.

Crack.

Crack.

Two of the red faces fall. Countless others clamber to take their place.

He pulls the trigger again but it clicks empty.

He swings the rifle at a large creature on his right and pushes it off the edge of the truck.

There's a loud crash and he turns to see the windshield of the buggy pry loose with the pull of a chained harpoon. The glass cracks, breaks apart against the side of the truck. The buggy sputters and swipes spiked tires.

Something like worry flashes, hot and quick, through his gut.

He watches the buggy straighten. Three men fall limply off the other truck in quick succession.

The girl's still alive.

Screeching metal on the scaffolding above him tells him that could change. Soon. One of the red faces is loading another cruel claw and setting its sights on the little car.

An arm wraps around his neck and he throws all his weight into his elbow.

The thing goes down, but doesn't let go. They both slam onto the metal deck hard.

He thrashes and jabs his elbow again and again until it stills, lets go.

Crawling to his feet he jumps, grabbing hold of the thick rail above his head.

A heavy weight hooks onto his leg.

Half dozen kicks has the red face off him and he swings up to hurry across unsteady metal.

His path is blessedly empty as he clambers up a rusted ladder toward the harpoon. The little man behind the trigger howls inhumanly when he pulls him from the loaded gun. But there's a snap from the machine. Chain rattles and heavy metal whistles through air. The harpoon crunches as it digs into the roof of the buggy.

He throws the triggerman from the truck.

Below his feet, a swarm of red faces are already scrambling upward. There isn't a better choice.

He rips the strap off his rifle, wraps his hand, and throws the length of it over the chain connected to the harpoon.

When his feet leave the truck he's in all but free fall. A rough ride. He hits the roof of the buggy hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

He hears shouts and spots a red face peering out from the top of the turret he just left. The man starts turning a winch.

Metal groans.

He rolls away just as the harpoon tears a chunk out of the roof.

It lands him on the hood of the swerving car, staring straight down the barrel of a gun. All he can do is meet the girl's gaze and hope she doesn't shoot. She stares into him with that black fire. Gun unwavering. Hells, it might well be the last thing he ever sees. Shadowed fire behind a smoking trigger.

Her gun shifts, cracks twice, and something heavy hits his back. He grunts, shifts, and the body falls.

The car rocks as two more creatures land on the roof.

He lets instinct take over. Pulls himself up and grabs for the closest, a deformed face with little bones hanging around its neck.

He pounds his fist into red paint and hears more cracks from the girl's gun. Quick heat sears against his leg and the car shifts as it looses dead weight.

With another crack, the red face in front of him goes slack. He pushes it from the vehicle and looks down to the tear in his pant leg. To the holes peppered in the metal beneath him.

The girl is a tough sell.

Metal snaps and whistles behind them.

A heavy harpoon carries a thick, metal cord from one truck to the other. Red faces scramble to fit the spiked metal into a large latch and he spots another gun lining up a second shot.

They're trying to pen them in.

Shouts, hoots, and hollers bounce through the wind. All the red faced things have fists raised in the air and are looking down the road with unguarded glee. He follows their gaze and sees vicious spikes pierced into the dead earth ahead. A pit of them.

The buggy lurches. Loses speed.

Metal coil rushes to meet them.

He rolls from the roof, hand catching on the passenger's door.

It's a tight fit. Metal screeches as the little car jolts and ducks beneath angry wire. He tightens his hold as they continue to loose momentum and skirt the backside of one of the trucks. A red face jumps, clinging to the hood as they clear the rusted machine.

The buggy lurches again.

But it steadies, picks up speed.

Their latest arrival, a burly creature, straightens and lines up the spiked pole in its hands.

He drives it into the opening of the windshield as Max grabs for him.

The girl shouts. In anger or pain, he can't tell.

All he knows is fury.

He pulls himself onto the hood and pounds into any part of the creature he can reach. He doesn't know what they are. Doesn't care. Only knows fight, survive, protect. Whether the girl wants his help or not, she has it. Whether she'll try to kill him or thank him when it's over, he can't tell. Either way he doesn't have much choice. Lesser devils and all that.

The car jerks sideways and breaks his haze. He loses his grip and the bloodied poleman falls from the car with a yell.

One of the smaller pursuit vehicles, just as rusted as the rest of them, is scraping their side.

It swerves wildly and rams again, trying to push them into the trucks.

He snags the frame of the buggy and struggles to get to the metal monster, but the girl doesn't wait for him. She whips her pistol toward the car and unloads three shots into the other driver.

The red face goes limp and the rusted beast careens off and slams into another vehicle.

Rust, metal, and fuel ignite in the hot air.

The girl glances his way as she reloads.

The spiked pole is stuck into the seat and blood streams from a gash on her neck in heavy rivulets. It does nothing to quench the fire in her eyes.

An uncontrollable tug quirks his lips.

He doesn't see if she returns his sad excuse of a smile.

Pain shoots through his leg and suddenly his hands are scraping hot metal and hard, sandy earth meets his face. He spins, vision swallowed in dust. Everything is fire. Earth grinds beneath his back and he can feel hot pain tearing through his leg as he drags through endless sand.

They must have him tethered to one of the damn trucks. A human sled. And at fifty miles an hour all he can do is ragdoll behind them and hope he doesn't go under any wheels. The fire burns and eats its way through the layers on his back, fights for his attention over the agony of his leg. All of it makes him wish one of the red faces would just shoot him and end it.

But he spots a metal-torn buggy through the dust beside him.

A sharp tug jerks the metal in his flesh.

He sees the girl. Hanging from her car with the spiked pole in hand.

Trying to snap the line.

A loud crunch tells him they've gotten another harpoon into the buggy. Her spiked pole flies past him in the sand as the little car swerves away, skids onto two wheels.

There's another tug on the line, enough that he feels something tear.

He howls.

But the tugging doesn't end. Continues to tear and burn with every agonizing jolt. They're reeling him in, persistent bastards. Another rough yank and he's ready to just cut the damn leg off himself.

But the buggy returns, cutting through desert air with sure precision.

And with the crack of a gunshot, the line breaks -

\- and his world goes black.

* * *

Well that was a monster of a chapter. Sorry it took so long to post, life has a funny way of destroying my writing time. I'm also a struggle bus when it comes to writing action, which _yay!_ here's a whole chapter of nothing but. Masochist. Me. Yes. Thanks to those of you who are sticking it out! I would really like to hear your feedback on this chapter as I'm worried some of the action isn't as clear and visual as I wanted it to be. Anyways, thank you for letting me assault your brains for a while. I wish much madness and chrome to you all.


	4. Save Her

I own nothing.

* * *

Save Her

 _Where are you, Max?_

The voice floats through his brain. A dusty, wheezing breeze.

 _Maaaax?_

 _Where are you?_

Blood and big rigs and lifeless blue eyes flash against his eyelids.

 _Come on, Max_

Go away

 _Why?_

 _Why didn't you save us?_

 _Why won't you save her?_

His eyes snap open. A fading orange sky hangs above him. He blinks sand from his vision as he watches light give way to dark and tries to take stock of the world.

Everything is fire. The sticky tang of evaporated sweat clings to his skin beneath sand and fabric. The grit makes him wonder how long it would take for the desert to swallow him if he stayed like this. Days? Weeks?

He shifts. Groans. If there's a part of him that isn't battered and bruised, he'd never be able to tell. The back of his shirt has to have been shredded to scraps and he hopes his jacket hasn't fared worse.

 _Come on, Max_

He grunts, rolls onto his side and wants the empty, painless black to return. But the little girl's question echoes in his ears.

 _Why won't you save her?_

He shoves his hands under aching weight and pushes. Something twinges, deep and biting in his left shoulder. He vaguely recalls pulling a knife from it hours back. Right before the world went mad. And he remembers why he's on the ground, covered in sweat and sand, battered more than he's been in ages. It kicks blessed adrenaline into his system.

It had been broad daylight when he'd been cut from the truck. Now the sun drowns itself beneath the horizon and he needs to move. His eyes track the grooves of tires beneath him toward the horizon. None of the rusted monsters are in sight, but in the distance he sees a familiar, unmoving blob.

He gathers his feet and howls. Something shifts inside his leg. He looks down.

Metal is pierced through the calf muscle beneath his bad kneecap.

He pounds a fist into the sand. Three times. Then he can do nothing but steel himself with familiar, grim detachment. The arrow is spiked at the end, hooked into his flesh like greedy teeth. It'll have to come out the right way or he'll never be able to walk. But he can't spare the time and he can't risk bleeding himself dry.

He pulls a knife from his boot, cuts the cord still dangling from the arrow's looped end, thank hells it wasn't a chain, and gathers it from the ground. His breath hitches as he wraps it around both ends of bloodied metal. It's the best he can do, so he catches his breath and pushes himself to his feet.

Every step is a gamble of whether or not the leg will hold him, but he hobbles as fast as he dares. It takes far longer than he likes to reach the ruined buggy.

It's turned over on its side. Banged and dented.

Must have rolled.

He pulls himself around until he can see inside the cab. There's no sign of the girl apart from spatters of red on the seat. Blood, thick and congealed. The interior of the car is battered to hell and he hopes she was thrown free before it started to roll. He's been hoping a lot of things lately. Damn Furiosa. Damn the wives and damn the Many Mothers.

The sand under his feet shows signs of a scuffle. A dark, muddy mixture melts into the ground not far away. It's bloody enough he knows someone is dead, but there's no body.

What now?

The girl, if she's alive, is long gone.

His vehicle is far behind him.

The metal in his leg is already sending unnatural heat through his blood.

 _Why won't you save her?_

He closes his eyes but the little girl with the skull face shows herself anyway.

Consumed in fire.

 _Why won't you save her, Max?_

Her voice mixes with something deeper. Something beyond the grasp of his addled mind.

Daylight dies as the night begins to swirl cool air around him. It sinks beneath the sand on his skin and cools lingering embers of pain.

He breathes and opens his eyes to see the glow of burning flames in the distance.

It could be anyone. But in this wasteland, the list of anyone is short and includes a girl he now owes his life to. He turns back to the buggy and leans into the cab. His hand fumbles over lifeless metal, lands on a handgun that's stuck under the front seat. A minor miracle. The clip is empty save one round, but there's still an extra clip in his jacket so he holsters the pistol at his side.

Everything else that was housed inside the car is now splayed over silent sand. He finds a canvas bag full of guns - rifles, a shotgun even - most empty of ammo but useful enough. Stuck in the sand is what must be the girl's crazy, needle bladed staff. He grabs the solid end of the thing and whips the metal downward. It extends with a loud SCHINK.

At least he'll have something to put his weight on.

He picks up a full canteen of water, a pleasant surprise, but what throws his mind the most are the books.

There's at least a dozen, scattered among the meager possessions the girl kept with her. Their pages are faded and torn, but they're books nonetheless. She might have kept them for kindling, but why so many?

He picks up one with a grease stained cover. A rub of his thumb unveils faded letters. _Hamlet_.

He shouldn't take it, there's no value in its pages for him, but he hums and tucks the book into his jacket before he turns, eyes the glowing fire in the distance, and starts his long walk.

* * *

AHHHHG. I really wanted to give you guys the full rescue mission for this chapter but the damn thing is being a massive ass. I'll sit down an have a chat with everyone in my head so we can get back with the program and hopefully get you the good stuff soon. As always, your comments and thoughts are welcomed and appreciated.


End file.
